I’m afraid. Afraid of words that are labelling me. Afraid to sleep alone. Afraid to spend the days alone. I’m afraid.
I know it’s just a word. I’m good with words. It’s a diagnosis. But it’s a diagnosis that I don’t completely understand. I’ve been digging, trying to find resources for myself and to share with others. Honestly, there’s not much out there. Did this just pop up out of nowhere? How do they even know this is me? Then I look at the symptoms again, and my past behaviors with and without medications, and realize this is me.
I’ve always been so good at being alone that it’s never bothered me before. But now, the silence is deafening. There is no joy. Only me and the shadows that come around every so often. I think it’s the silence that scares me the most. But being around people and noise is too much. I just want you, just you.
And that scares me too. I’m too dependent on you. It’s too much for you, for me to put all my fears into you. To hold me up when I’m falling apart and yet, here you are with the tape and glue. It’s too much for one person. And I’m afraid that I’m killing you or pushing you away by pulling you too close.
I just feel afraid of everything and I don’t know how to make it stop.
The way we live today, in this crazy, busy world with crazy schedules it’s hard to find time for yourself.
Sometimes I just need some time. Time to relax and heal. Time to process. Time to think and breathe. Time to rest and really rest. With my schedule I can’t always get that.
Today was an instance of overload. I went to my gyno and for news that I didn’t want to hear, it made me angry. Things aren’t happening how I want them to. I thought I would be pregnant by now. And yet there is still no progress there. There’s too many factors that he wants to consider first, things that he wants to work on first before we really start pushing hormones. I understand, logically – the logical side of me can see he’s being a good doctor. But the raw emotional side of me says that I hate him and he’s wasting my time.
I needed time to process.
Then I had an anxiety attack, different from a panic attack.
I needed time to get over that.
I called into work. They got mad. I felt bad. But I needed time. And then I needed time to get over then getting made at me.
I fell asleep and woke up in a panic attack. Shaking, heart racing, I felt like I was dying. I felt suicidal. The voices in my head saying I deserved to die.
Marcus talked me through everything. He was calming and helped me take my medicine to calm the voices in my head. We’ve been resting since then.
I just need time to rest and maybe I’ll be better tomorrow, if not, I just need more time.
When I visited the doctor the other day, I noticed on her billing page that she marked borderline personality disorder.
Not that it bothers me or anything, I’ve had the diagnosis for a while, but when we last spoke she took the BPD off. She said that I wasn’t showing signs of it anymore. She took it off.
People with BPD, or so I’ve read, can lose the diagnosis within two years of being diagnosed. They use therapy and medications for the symptoms, but you can get better. Again, at least that’s what I have read recently.
I think over time, my symptoms have gotten better. I no longer feel like people are abandoning me or that people are leaving me. I’m no longer trying to push people away. I feel better in that sense. And I’ve been so focused on my bipolar disorder and PTSD that I’ve forgotten about the borderline.
I meant to ask her if I’m still borderline or if she is rediagnosing me. But I forgot. I guess that’s a question for next time.
Around the house, around the yard, at work… On my days off it’s a lot worse.
It’s like I can’t relax, I can’t rest. The longer I sit still, the more upset I get. I have to move. I have to do something.
At work, it’s not so bad. There’s plenty to do, so I just stay busy. But when there’s a lull in how busy it should be, I’m moving. Because I can finally sit, for a minute. But the minute ticks by and I have to move.
This weekend should have been fun and relaxing. We went to visit a friend. And I was anxious the whole way up there. When we got there I started pacing. Sitting on the edge of the seat, fidgeting with my hands, pacing again. I finally took an Ativan, it helped a little. I’m having to take them a lot more.
The same thing happened today. More pacing. Another pill, this time I went and took a nap because I just couldn’t handle it.
I go to see the doctor Thursday. So I plan on telling her that I’m more anxious. That I’m having to take my emergency pills almost every day. That my sleeping patterns are still off and that I need some kind of help. Something needs to change. I can’t go around feeling like this all the time.